Oh ‘ello. Just popped by to say that currently, I am terrified.
Scared out of my mind.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time I felt so vulnerable.
There is a 100-page, 1.5-spaced manuscript idling between my husband’s lap and his hands while he reads. He, by the way, is wearing a pair of Homer Simpson slippers.
I love him, but could the man have possibly chosen to wear a creepier pair of eyes to stare at me from across the room as I wait, palms sweaty, for him to make it through 44,000 words?
The answer you’re looking for is no.
I must be a glutton for punishment because I am glued to my seat, occasionally sneaking glances in his direction to make sure his expression is either amused, intrigued or indifferent — not confused. Please, anything but confused. I thought I read, re-read and re-re-read to make sure it all made sense!
Crap. He just clicked his pen. He’s writing something on the page. I can pretend I am back in first grade, when the red marks of commentary always said, “Excellent!” or “Bravo!” but I have a feeling it’s something else. I told him to be brutally honest, after all.
Back to reading. He’s smiling now, though I haven’t a clue which one of my lines caused the cute one on his face to curve upward. At least it’s something positive to hold onto.
Time to force myself into another room.
To be continued…